


Snapshots

by rainer76



Category: Fringe
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-18
Updated: 2012-09-30
Packaged: 2017-10-29 19:58:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/323580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainer76/pseuds/rainer76
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of quick and dirty fics.  Each story will have its own chapter with appropriate warnings labelled, so read carefully before progressing.</p><p>Most recent: chapter eight - Olivia, Lincoln, and Peter - AU for season five</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for the Pilot episode.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set around the pilot episode. Olivia, Peter, gen.

The first time she reads about Peter Bishop it’s 2:45 in the morning.  Olivia hasn’t slept and there’s a low hum in her ears, reminiscent of an electrical charge, the aftermath of the storage explosion.  It hurts with every expansion of breath, a rattle in her ribcage, in the caverns of her bruised chest.  John Scott lies dying and Olivia’s never been so terrified. 

The dossier she finds on Peter is more substantial than his father.  IQ of 190, she says to Charlie; and a high school dropout.  The younger Bishop has been a wild-land fireman, cargo pilot, and briefly a college professor.  He faked his way into MIT and even had a few books published before they caught on.  He’s a conman, nomad, a liar; and a massive pain in the ass - that he’s Olivia’s only living connection to Walter Bishop goes without saying.  

There are two photographs included in the dossier: the first depicts the Bishop’s in 1989.  Walter’s smile steals the limelight.  The scientist stands in centre frame, one hand clasped in a firm handshake with a senator, by comparison, his son is obscured by two adults; a boy with small shoulders and hair in his eyes.  Peter holds himself stiffly, head turned away, staring at something out of reach, beyond the camera’s line of sight.  It’s a blurry photograph, cindered at the edges.  The only thing Olivia takes away from it; is that the boy seems watchful.  The second photograph however, was taken less than a year ago and shows a man with a perpetual three-day growth.  His posture’s a casual sprawl against the table, a thousand miles from the tension of his childhood.

Seven hours later, Olivia’s on a plane to Iraq, her teeth grinding with impatience and her fury at Broyles driving her onward.

When they meet for the first time, Olivia takes half a second to sum Peter up.  Bishop’s handsome in a non-traditional way, like he was born out of kilter, forty years too late.  He doesn’t have John’s clean-cut military good looks.  He doesn’t have Walter’s affinity for aiding his nation through science.  The smile that he flashes is the first thing Olivia actively _dislikes._  It slides across Peter’s face like black gold, like the commodity a thousand wars have been fought for, buried in the arid landscape, slick, never surfacing to reach his eyes.  The watchfulness is the only thing the boy shares in common with the man, and Olivia knows in an instant her first plan won’t work.  

Olivia came here hoping to appeal to his sense of humanity, the compassion that allows one human being to aid another.  John Scott’s dying – her mind whispers, frantic, a relentless drum beat, John’s _dying_ – and Olivia changes tactics without thinking.  If compassion won’t work, she’ll lay her cards on the table and bluff, beguile with innuendo, misdirection, with threat.  If that, too, fails, then she’ll haul Peter Bishop back by chains if necessary.  

She won’t allow John’s death, she can’t conceive of a world without him.  Olivia came all the way to Iraq to find a charlatan, she has no intention of letting him slip away.

 


	2. Extreme Prejudice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peter Bishop/Thomas Jerome Newton - AU ending of Northwest Passage - written for the kink-meme.  Contains non-con, rape, minor references to season three. Caution advised.

 

 

“Peter… Uh-uh.”

Newton’s voice doesn’t sound like a villain, the admonishment to leave the weapon on the table stops Peter in his tracks. Krista’s mixed CD clatters to the floor, the headphones still looped around his neck, heart in his throat.

Peter’s vision blurs momentarily, too long without sleep, too high on caffeine. He raises his hands slowly.

Newton nods in approval, weapon canted.

Peter’s trying to shrug off the cloud of exhaustion, paranoia that’s kept him moving like a shark, never stopping. He thought, finally, that Mathis was right, looking for meaning where there was none, crazy as Walter, but the second Peter lowered his guard… They were here all along, he thinks bitterly, in the forest too.

“If you’d lie back down, sir.” The shape-shifter’s voice remains pleasant; a warm undercurrent in his tone, like someone’s favorite uncle. When Peter obeys, Newton strips the clip from the automatic on the table and clears the round from the chamber. He shuts the door behind him, drawing the chain for extra measure and sits on a ratty chair in the corner.

“What now?” Peter inquires.

“We wait. We weren’t expecting you to leave Boston so quickly. Our visitor needs time to recuperate before he can join us.  He sent me to ensure you didn’t travel too far.”

“A lot of effort for a chat,” Peter drawls, emphasizing the last word in the same accent as the shape-shifter.

Newton’s mouth curves, his eyes the color of worn-out denim. “One might think so, yes.”

“For something not real, you pass well.”

“Not real?”

“Not human.  A machine.” He’s needling Newton; it’s what Peter does when he’s uncertain, seeking out a reaction, a baseline to work from. The curve on Newton’s mouth becomes pronounced, a crescent half-smile.

“Don’t agitate the monkeys, Peter, it might not end so well for you.”

Peter stares up at the ceiling.  He thinks about the shotty under the bed, the knife in his back pocket. Newton stares at him, unblinking, his gaze heavy as a physical weight. Agitated, Peter snaps. “What do you want from me?”

Newton was created to obey orders, a perfect machine, to never deviate.  His personal god is arriving soon but this is the closest Newton can come to worshipping at his altar. The man on the bed is a sibling of sorts, designed if not from mercury then of blood. Keep Peter Bishop alive was the mandate Newton operated by, but no order was passed on what state he had to be in. 

He was the first of his kind, the best.  Since then, others had arrived and in ‘passing’ became infected with the culture they were sent to infiltrate.  They were machines, but everything can be broken down to its sum components, mechanical and human alike. Newton stands, he shrugs the long coat from his shoulders, a bare second of distraction.

Peter, seemingly relaxed, launches from the bed like a tiger.  The knife angled low, a quick flash in his hand.

The first slash tears Newton’s belly from hipbone to breastplate while his arms are still trapped inside the coat.  The pain doesn’t register; the Secretary deemed sensation unimportant. 

Peter pivots, Newton echoes him, fluid as water; the coat fans to the floor like a second skin. The weapon Newton holds in his hand flies upward, ready to fire. It’s not any make or model Peter’s seen before.  Desperate, he clashes with the older man.  They totter as drunkards, stagger across the floor while locked together, knife and gun crossed, their faces set with physical strain. Newton doesn’t have any body odor, the absence strangely telling.  The skin on Newton’s stomach knits back together, mercury smearing Peter’s jacket like stars in the night. The machine, and it’s what Newton _is_ , avuncular voice or not, remains impossibly strong.

The gun slips down.

Peter flips the knife, angled along his own forearm, and takes one step back, he slashes Newton’s throat the same instant the weapon fires.

Peter reverses direction, stabbing backward, impaling the neck from left ear to right. Newton chokes, his eyes rolling, teeth bared. The silence stretches out, one hand scrabbles at his t-shirt.

Peter glances down to where a blue vial is projecting from his hipbone, the result of the weapons discharge. Peter releases his hold as the light in the room begins to swim. He takes two steps toward the door before his muscles seize, dropping him to his knees.  He keels over like a sailing mast in heavy storms. The last image Peter sees is Newton removing the blade from his own throat, head tilted thoughtfully, as if Peter’s an unruly houseguest.

“It’s a paralyzing agent,” Newton explains when Peter awakes. “It should keep you immobile and safe until the Secretary arrives.”

It feels too much like Tyler Carson, unable to move his own body. Peter’s not claustrophobic but there’s an imperative running through his veins like a fault line. He bites down on his tongue, feels his fingers twitch inward, but that’s it, no further freedom. The rise and fall of his chest is the only clue to his distress. Peter locks his emotions down tighter than a fortress under siege, regulates his breathing to the very second. The room has changed since the last time he was conscious. There’s a duffel bag on the chair, presumably from Newton’s car. As for the shape-shifter himself, he stands naked, the clothes that were torn, stained with mercury, bundled into plastic bags. He looks like a man in his early forties, once fit, fair skinned. He’s perfectly formed, not a single blemish from the knife wounds Peter inflicted. As for the other differences in the room, they have to do with location and his own state of dress, namely, back on the bed and none.

“Immobility is the only effect. You’ll see sensation; heat, cold, pain or even pleasure, are still interpreted by the neurons in your brain. Physical deprivation of course makes one more sensitive to touch, but I wouldn’t let that worry you, my kind aren’t real, are they?”

Newton watches him, his gaze assessing. He’s a truer child than Peter Bishop is, his own loyalties fixed.  Newton remembers the Secretary’s touch in the deserted warehouse, the fierce clasp of their co-joined hands. He has a brother of sorts, but this flawed creation will always be more revered by the Secretary.

There are scars on Peter’s body, stories with no context. Newton places one hand on the human’s torso, traces the marked border-zones of conflict. The skin pebbles under his touch. Peter’s eyes narrow to pinpricks. He presses down harder, rakes his nails across the spare fingers of Peter’s ribcage. The skin reddens into an upraised welt. Peter hisses, a quick expulsion of breath. The Secretary prizes family above all else.

Newton needs to be closer, peel the layers back, to drape the claim of kinship across both their shoulders. Newton doesn’t feel attraction or desire for the man before him, his actions are guided by the desire for commonality, to make a point. When he drops his hand further, skirting the hollows of the hip, the lower abdominal muscles that dip into a V, Peter swallows convulsively.

“Don’t.”

It’s barely audible to the human ear, for Newton, it’s as clear as a microphone. The human’s penis lies quiescent, soft in muted shadow. Newton lays his hand over the vulnerability, flicks his thumb across the hood. Peter twitches, the eyelashes a dark fan obscuring emotion. His mouth becomes a thin, hard line, the rise and fall of his chest, oddly, turns even.

Newton calculates the time, measuring how long ago Peter was exposed to the paralyzing agent, he notes the finer muscle groups which are just beginning to respond, (fingers, toes, facial tics), versus the heaviness of Peter’s limbs, and swallows him to the root.

Peter makes a sound like he’s been punched.

The human’s cock lies heavy on his tongue, the taste not unpleasant. Newton has no gag reflex and at present Peter’s body has no interest in the proceedings, it’s not difficult to take his entire length, to press his mouth to soft hair, breath through his nose and swallow. A human body is hot-wired to stimuli, a firing of neurons geared toward pleasure, the outcome inevitable, reliable as a machine.  Newton swallows, presses his lips tight, and drags upward tortuously slow. When he does it for the fourth time, Peter’s breathing turns ragged, the soft flesh in his mouth starts to harden. Peter’s upper torso twists, one hand batters down toward Newton’s head. Newton captures the limb easily, presses the wrist into the mattress and pulls off, the sound obscenely wet. Where Peter’s face had once been carefully blank, now it’s twisted, his teeth are showing, eyes glittering with hate.  Fine motor control hasn’t fully returned, his body remains heavy, malleable.

Calmly, Newton wraps both hands around Peter’s cock and strokes, letting his nails catch against skin, letting his thumb dig in with too much pressure.  Peter makes a broken off sound, strangely young, hips withdrawing.  Newton licks his own fingers, dirty quick, letting Peter _see_ , and then pushes two fingers inside his body without reprieve.  Newton angles them up, pressing against silken skin, against heat, finding the prostate and lodging there as if he has no desire to move.  Newton’s left hand is a loose flex around Peter’s shaft, no longer stroking but holding still.

The seconds tick away.  He listens to Bishop’s harsh breathing and waits. “Move,” Newton suggests finally, “the sooner you come the quicker it’s over.”

Fingers deep in his ass, hand around his cock, there’s no direction Peter wants to go.  Fine tremors shake his frame as the sensation escalates, hair damp with sweat.  It’s happening, it’s _going_ to happen, and while the hand around his cock is immobile the fingers against his prostate don’t relent, a grinding sweep from left to right.  His first thrust is like pushing a boulder up-hill.  His muscles heavy with strain, uncoordinated, nails catch against his hood. Newton loosens his grip, strokes down to his balls then jacks upward with a slow twist.  Wash, recycle, repeat.  His body totters between too distant and too much - between unreal and present - the drug a dividing layer prolonging his reactions.  He’s wet with precum.

“That’s it,” Newton encourages, his voice expansive, expression neutral.  He jacks him, crown to balls, then up with a burning twist. 

Peter shudders.  There’s a mountain slope in Hakuba where the light is otherworldly, hitting the tip of a craggy peak like a halo, where the local girls are shy and curious. He thrusts, and is rewarded with a tongue, with a mouth that swallows him deep, that doesn’t choke as he swells in liquid warmth.  The fingers in his ass flex, stretching to their widest point, then slide from his body. His cock pulses, scrotum pulled tight. He feels horribly empty for a moment, asshole gaping wide, and Hakuba, the mountain range, vanishes like so much imaginary mist.  The mouth on his cock tightens and sucks.  He comes quietly, body flushing sweet rose.  He comes with Newton holding both of his hips down forcibly, hard enough to bruise.  It hurts.  The orgasm too sudden, electrified.

Newton pulls off slow with an obscene pop.  He taps Peter’s chest mockingly.  “Programmed reaction to stimuli.  What a perfect machine you are, Peter.”

 

 

 

Peter kills his first shape-shifter one year later.  He does it with a bullet to the skull, with a knife wrenching through the spinal-cord.  He does it with a hoodie, with gloves on, with every emotion both near and far, gliding beneath the surface of his motives.  He does it with extreme prejudice. He hunts the shape-shifters down one at a time and never tells a soul. When Walter finds him, he doesn’t recognize his boy in the killer’s passive stare.  He doesn’t recognize his son with the mercury smeared over his clothing and the insistence that he hasn’t done anything wrong.  “This isn’t you,” Walter insists.  He doesn’t understand the frosty chill to Peter’s words. 

“They’re _not_ real.”  

Ironically, Walter blames the Machine and feels his spine tense with misgiving, as if Peter's assertion of _They're not real_  directly translates to:  _It doesn't count._

 __The Machine has done this somehow, but Walter never finds a viable answer, or a solution, and he lets the question fade into the background.


	3. Expansion of a Flawed Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This story is a wip, originally posted on the kink-meme in May 2011 and to be honest, in danger of never being finished. Gen, case-file. An AU from the end of season two - Peter stays in the redverse a little longer than depicted in the show.

When Olivia escorts Peter Bishop to his new apartment she doesn’t expect to see him again; it affords her the opportunity to be blunt, to ask what the other side’s like, when Peter provides an answer, voice husky with emotion, Olivia excuses herself and returns to Lincoln and Charlie, the comfort of her team. Her prediction of a media storm doesn’t occur.  The next time Olivia meets the Secretary’s son, the ShowMe pinned to his shirt reads as Peter King and there can be no paparazzi if the prodigal son hasn’t returned.

Olivia, familiar with using association for aliases, taps a trim nail against the ID pinned on Bishop’s chest. “Peter Pawn didn’t appeal?”

“It lacks a certain grandiose,” he retorts sarcastically.

Amused, Olivia brushes past him and follows Charlie and Lincoln to a class four event. They come home dirty with sixty-eight civilians encased in amber. Olivia spots him near Astrid and she’s suddenly, inexplicably, pissed. “What’s Bishop even doing here?”

Lincoln shrugs noncommittally. “The Secretary’s indulging him.”

“Then indulge him at a playschool, he’ll be more useful there.”

Olivia strips her kit off in the change room, one arm braced against the tiles as the water skids off her shoulder, sloughs down the curve of her spine and tumbles from her ass. Sixty-eight civilians, thirty-eight males, seventeen females, thirteen children, their ages ranging from three to seventy-four respectively and there _has_ to be an easier solution than amber. Olivia doesn’t leave until Charlie hollers through the doorway about cold water, inconsiderate teammates, and his ailing muscles.

Peter returns the following day. Olivia observes him out of the corner of her eye, her spine stiff as an alleycat. Agent Farnsworth’s, she notes, is brittle in his presence, the staccato beat of her words rapid-fire, stressed, but they divvy up the Orange computer system without conflict. It takes Olivia five hours to realize Peter’s actually good with Astrid, as if off-centre minds, poor social skills, are the norm by which he operates. Peter never looks her in the eye. He talks with his head bent, voice low until the vibration in Astrid’s demeanor levels. It takes Olivia longer to realize the tension Peter was holding has diminished, as if Astrid were a harbor in a riptide ocean, floating safe above skeletal shipwrecks. Thoughtful, Olivia returns to work.

The Orange O.S has the fastest random statistical program in America. Peter King apparently has need of it and has his father’s blessing. Olivia decides as long as he’s out from underfoot, his presence in Fringe Division shouldn’t be too disruptive.

***

He doesn’t stay in the apartment. Peter stares at the line of comic book frames and feels it’s a mausoleum to a childhood he can’t remember. He’s not comfortable in the flat. Peter’s not comfortable anywhere. He walks the streets at night, braced against the cold, zigzagging from one corner of the city to the other; past Broadway, brothels, river-houses to the slums, he trails one finger over an amber breach, trying to find the pulse of a dying world, digging at the cyst where memory should reside. Inevitably, his journey ends at the Empire State building, forehead pressed against cool glass as he watches the dirigibles float in. Sandy, twenty-two with a gap-toothed smile, a shy disposition, lets him be. The docking station never empties of people; their background buzz like the ramblings of a madman who talked all night. Soothed, Peter sleeps, knowing he’s nothing, nobody, to any of them.

***

The first time Olivia sees Agent Farnsworth smile she almost stumbles over her own feet. Bishop’s reclined in a chair, legs stretched over the corner of the computer’s flat-screen.  Astrid, per usual, has her eyes angled away but the smile on her face breaks like summer dawn, golden; breathtakingly warm. Asperger’s is a poor cousin to autism, sign-posted by social ineptness and higher mathematical reasoning; unlike its better known relative the emotions aren’t locked away but accessible, highly selective, it’s not unusual for a sufferer to converse with one person to the exclusion of all others.  In Fringe Division, no one gave a damn what Astrid suffered from so long as she performed her assigned task; for that matter, no one tried to engage her either.

Astrid’s smile is a revelation; more tellingly is the relief in Bishop’s eyes when he sees it.

Olivia, halfway down the stairs, comes to a complete stop.

She meets with Lincoln and Charlie at Keggers (Lincoln’s choice) and they pass the night with round after round, their voices loud, rowdy with each outlandish story. Olivia nurses her drink while the boy’s knock theirs back, her stomach tight with laughter, with the _joie de vivre_ she finds with these men. She walks home with Charlie’s arm tossed over her shoulder, with the memory of Lincoln sprawled boneless in his seat. Olivia would die for them without question.  She knows unequivocally her teammates would do the same. She walks home with the flashbang memory of Peter's interaction with Astrid, her unexpected smile, and feels her stomach sour with certainty.

“What do you want?”

Olivia might not socialize with Astrid but the woman’s part of her unit. Olivia doesn’t know Bishop well enough to decide his game-plan (she’s actively avoided him since their conversation about the alternate reality), but where men and women mix there’s tension and she won’t see Astrid hurt.

Peter startles, the stubble dark on his cheeks. There are schematics laid out across the desk, his hair standing on end as if he’s fisted it. “Good morning to you too,” he drawls.

“Are you trying to sleep with her?” It’s a natural extension, aggressive enough so Olivia can read his reaction. Peter’s expression flickers through a dozen emotions before it turns ugly. Olivia regrets her choice of words, would snatch the question back if she could, except the tone and accusation’s already out there.

“She was a friend on the other side, as for sleeping with _this_ Astrid, Julie Henders might object.”

The name means nothing to Olivia.

Peter’s eyes are flint. “Anything else you’d like to know, Agent Dunham?”

She wants to know if the other Olivia has more tact, but she posed the question to gain an honest insight, pandering to social niceties is a luxury Fringe, and Olivia, can’t afford. “Has anyone shown you the SOPs and evac procedures yet?” Peter blinks. He leans back in his seat and motions toward the second window on his computer-screen. He’s doing his own research then, trying to bridge the gap between the world he was raised in and the world he was taken from; the taste in Olivia’s mouth feels like ash, uncomfortable, because no one’s bothered to show him personally. The Secretary may have given his son an ivory tower to live in but he doesn’t spend every waking moment there. Olivia shifts her stance. “You have any questions, or don't understand why the procedures are there, ask someone immediately, either Astrid or me, or whoever you can find.”

Peter nods curtly.

Olivia hesitates then steps toward the comfort of her team, their desks sequestered together in a row. He’s un-tethered – there’s thunder in Peter’s eyes – the earliest warning system known to mankind, Olivia wonders if her double would know how to settle him, soothe the wildness out of his runner’s frame.

“Liv,” Lincoln greets, one hip propped against her desk.

“What is it?”

“I was about to ask the same thing.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You’re looking clear-eyed, especially considering last night.”

“You can thank my good looking charms to the wonders of Cold n’ Sobers.”

Olivia laughs. “Better than an espresso shot?”

“If I could remember what an espresso tastes like I would agree.” Lincoln smiles disarmingly, and Olivia agrees, Lee’s charming and heartbreakingly _young._ He angles his head toward Peter. “How’s our kidnap victim?”

“Prickly.”

Lee nods and drums his heel against the desk. “Out-fit him with an air canister and ear-comm, Astrid says the power usage in his apartment’s sub quota.  If he's going to be walking the streets at all hours, he might need them.”

Olivia meets Lincoln’s eyes, an entire conversation in the space of a second, and nods. Tersely, she changes the subject. “We had a phone-in this morning by a woman named Doris Marice, some old bitty who said something weird happened yesterday.”

“That’s detailed, did Doris add to the observation?”

“Only that she saw a window opening, a pathway to heaven, she thought the angels had come to take her away.”

Lincoln grimaces, mutters under his breath. “Another nut-case religious wacko.”

“Dime a dozen.”

“Any other news?”

“A body in an abandoned factory, teeth and nails missing, single gun-shot to the forehead.” Olivia notes Lincoln’s impatience, his hands rolling through the air in a ‘wrap it up’ gesture. “The victim’s name was Daniel Mewlinksi, a former employee of Bishop Dynamic, someone took their pound of flesh. He was fired over a decade ago. Secretary Bishop bumped the case over to us.”

Lincoln chews on his lip, head canted in the direction of Broyle’s office. “Take Charlie and head off the local LEOs, find out if Mewlinski had a gambling debt or an angry ex-wife, and if neither, find out who his associates were and what he’s been doing for the last ten years.” Olivia grabs her jacket and swings by the kitchen to grab Charlie, itching to move. “And Olivia,” Lincoln calls out. “This requires _talking_ to people…not shooting them in the butt.”

Olivia crosses her eyes. “One minor incident.”

Lincoln snorts; watching the sway of her hips as she vanishes from view, when he turns Bishop has his chin propped against his palm, his expression inquisitive. Lincoln knows the look, he’s seen it reflected in the mirror often enough. “Broyles said you worked for a unit not dissimilar to ours?”

“A little more insane, a little less tech.” Peter rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “The old bitty who witnessed the doorway to heaven, where was that?”

And pretty good at deflection, Lee decides.  He folds his arms; trying for arch and failing miserably, Bishop looks amused rather than chagrined. Lee explains evenly, “Those type of phone-calls are common, every time there’s an ‘event’ the religious nutters are off quicker than a bride’s pajamas - jamming our phone-lines - doom-saying this and doom-saying that.”

Impatient, Peter backtracks through the computer’s logbook until he finds the information for himself. Perplexed he stops and re-reads the address twice. Lee leans over his shoulder. “Is Boston General still on 55 Fruit St?”

Lee rocks Peter's seat forward and corrects him. “One block over.  On this side of the universe fifty-five is residential.”

“You mind if I talk to her?”

“Yes,” Lincoln says flatly, “for one you don’t have authority and two, your father will kill me if anything happens.”

“Then come along and protect me from old bitty’s,” Peter says wryly.  He takes Lincoln's measure slowly, a sweep from head to foot, his expression sardonic. “You’ve got a gun.”

“How come everyone in my social network’s sarcastic?” Peter narrows his eyes, the smile on his face reluctant; Lincoln knows it’s more than idle curiosity, _something_ about the phone-call piqued Bishop’s interest. Personally Lee hates being kept out of the loop, he hates secrets altogether, they have a tendency to bite people in unexpected places. “I’ll come along,” Lee allows. “But you do what I say when I say it. No questions asked, clear?”

Peter smirks. “That’s not what Olivia said.”

“That’s why I’m in charge.”

***

Apartment 6A has the unique scent common to elderly people. Lee would bet his left nut widower Marice hasn’t cracked a window in the last decade; the heater’s on full blast, trying to reconstruct Miami summer in winter, a vase with decaying flowers sits on the mantle piece, the petals spilled across the floor. There’s rosemary beads wrapped around Doris’ wrist, her hands shake with the onslaught of Parkinson’s’.

“I saw it right over there, beside the window.”

Bishop has a spectrum analyzer in his hand, leaving the heavy talking to Lincoln as he ghosts the perimeter of the room.  Lincoln schools his features into professionalism. “So you saw a window beside the, um, window?”

“Don’t act dubious around me, young man! It was bright as heavenly light! I saw the angels of our Savior beckon me from the other side.”

Olivia’s sister fell into a cult in the months prior to childbirth.  None of Rachel’s praying helped her or the young one she was carrying; Lee tries to keep his face friendly, because the only ‘angels’ he knows herald destruction, and he's had enough religious nutters shouting in his face to last a lifetime. “What were the diameters, ma'am?”

“Three meters by three,” Doris trails off, uncertain. “He didn’t look well…the angel on the other side.”

Peter goes preternaturally still. The spectrum analyzer flashes red in his hand.  Lincoln throws him a sharp look. “How long did the window stay open for?”

“Two minutes if that. It flared brightly then vanished,” Doris runs the beads through her hands, the sound clickety-clacking in the oppressive heat.

“No one stepped through?”

“No angels, sir. I imagine it wasn’t my time yet.”

“I imagine so.” Lee smiles at the woman then swings in front of Peter, chest to chest, close enough he can feel the other man’s warmth. Peter startles and hops backward. “Was is it?” Lee asks casually.

“Kappa radiation.” Peter taps his finger against the windowpane. “I’ve been in this room before, except on the other side it’s the prison ward at Boston General. There was a gaping hole where the window used to be, a message scrawled on the wall.” He sounds distant to Lincoln’s ears, as if he’s fading away.

“And for those of us with IQs less than 190, what’s the significance of Kappa radiation?”

“A theorized connection with bending time.”

“Time travel?”

Bishop squints at him. “Just what I said.”

“Doris, what time did you see the window open?”

“2:45 pm, on the dot.”

Anger claws down Lincoln’s spine, meeting Peter’s eyes because _sixty-eight civilians lost their lives yesterday,_ and the last time someone tore a hole in Lincoln's universe they came for one person. “That was fifteen minutes before a new wormhole formed… Is it them?” Peter’s face flattens, inscrutable as a sphinx; Lee knots one hand in his collar and jerks him forward. “ _Is it them_?”

It’s the wrong move. Bishop shoves him, violently quick. Lincoln stumbles three steps and sees Peter shift his weight, moving to the balls of his feet. “I don’t know yet,” Peter spits. “Walter created a portal to step through worlds, but originally he meant to travel through time. It just…it didn’t work the way he thought it would.”

“And they still have it?”

“David Robert Jones stole it. One year ago.”

“If you boys are going to fight then I’ll ask you to take it outside, otherwise I’ll cane the both of you with my walking stick.” Doris is already out of her seat; Lee doesn’t like the gleam in her eye.

They make their apologies to Doris, as well as their thanks for the information, and step out of her apartment door.  The tension between them remains thick. Peter stops Lee halfway down the hallway with a hand to his elbow, his voice tight. “Can you give me one day? I want to check the carbon readings, see if I can pin-point the ‘when’ on the other side, it might not be what you think it is.”

“Sure,” Lee says easily. “I didn’t get this position by running to Command with an unsupported theory.  I’m _good_ at keeping secrets.”

***

“So,” Lee says as he steps into Broyle’s office. “I think someone’s trying to break into our universe.”

***

Daniel Mewlinski was strapped to a table-bench; three of his fingernails are missing, the molars torn from his gums. The third eye is a neat bullet wound directly above his forehead. Olivia circles him, her feet treading lightly. He bled from both nostrils at some stage, broken capillaries around cheekbones and eyes, bruises across his extremities. Olivia’s not trained in forensics but she takes one look at the ad-hoc generator, the copper wires discarded on the floor, and knows Mewlinksi was interrogated, mind probed with the combination of electric shock to the forebrain and neuron translator. “They wanted information.”

“Yeah.” Charlie indicates the bullet wound, his face tight with frustration. “And Mewlinski gave it.”The interrogators wiped the evidence of Daniel’s last thought with a hole to the forehead.  “He was sixty-four, wife died two years ago, no children. Financials are clean. His severance pay from Bishop Dynamic set him up for life.”

“Why was Mewlinski fired?”

“Do you want to ask Secretary Bishop or should I?”

They stare at one another.

“You know, technically, I think Lincoln’s in charge.”

Charlie laughs, feet scuffing against the floor. “I don’t mind telling you, Liv, this case doesn’t sit right.”

“You say that about every case,” Olivia teases. “The worms make you squirm.”

“Cute, you should take the comedy act on the road.” Charlie consults his hand-held, his voice turning gruff. “Daniel worked with two other scientists, they’re credited with the initial design of the shape-shifters Walter Bishop later enhanced.”

“Who were they?”

“Harris Pike and George...George Bell.”

Olivia squats down, perfectly balanced on her heels, examining the floor for casings. “Either of them still employed by Bishop?”

“Pike was given the same severance package as Mewlinski… Bell, I don’t know yet.” She can feel Charlie’s stare on the back of her head, pregnant with speculation. “I had tea with the Secretary’s son this morning, he came in early. He’s pretty good with Astrid, and I saw him talking to Lincoln before we left.” Irritated, Olivia ignores him. “Which makes you the ugliest girl at the prom. I’d say he was avoiding you, if I wasn’t so certain you were avoiding him too.”

“How’s this relevant, Charlie?” Olivia aks softly.

Charlie runs his tongue over his teeth and looks in the opposite direction. “I guess it isn’t.”

Olivia backs off a notch, lets some of the tension ease from her shoulders, the smile softening the curve of her mouth. “I think we need to ask some important people some important questions.”

Olivia never asked Peter if he loved the girl on the other side – she’s known the truth of it since she stood at parade rest and heard him describe her double in fits and starts - whatever his reasons were for leaving, they didn't come cheaply. Time to acclimate to the differences between worlds, to the differences between  _people,_  is the only kindness Olivia can afford him, a kindness Secretary Bishop’s keen to overlook.

Charlie’s hit was on target; Olivia  _has_ been avoiding him.

She's been uncomfortable since the Secretary made his request of her to drive Peter home.  Olivia feels she's walked into a movie theatre halfway through a foreign film, she's not privy to the language, or the expectation in Peter's eyes.  She has no interest in competing against a phantom memory of herself, and until Peter's willing to discount a history they don't share, staying away from him was the easiest solution.  Or it was, until he set up shop in Fringe Division  
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story had its origin due to mixed feelings regarding season three. I loved the collective acting from the cast, the format (Peter in every second episode, one story focused here, one story focused over there), the individual episodes, but had problems with the overall arcs. Namely, season three had a weird case of identity crisis. 
> 
> If there was a single character in Fringe who should have been stuck in Redverse while he figured out who he is and where he belonged, well I'm sorry, but it should have been Peter and _not _Olivia. And if you're doing the mystical machine capable of destruction/salvation arc, then, really, that ought to have been Olivia's storyline, since she's the soldier who was _designed _to save or fight for her reality. Oddly (and this is purely my own reaction) season three felt like a weird case of role reversal, and I was annoyed that Peter didn't get the chance to spend time in his own reality and relearn these characters. Hence, the story above.____
> 
> My desire to finish writing it though has pretty much dwindled, because everything I wanted from season three I'm getting (in a roundabout fashion) in season four instead. DRJ as principle bad-guy, Peter learning to interact with other versions of the people he loves, _Elizabeth _, fish-out-of-water scenario, and, of course, _Lincoln. _____


	4. Phoenix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snippet fic - Gen. Characters Walter Bishop, Olivia Dunham - written with the view Fringe won't do the expected.

“It was mine,” he whispers. “My error to begin with…none of you were meant to pay for it.” His skin is grey under her fingertips. “Strange, Olive. I spent so much of my life afraid.”

The world is too bright, like the comic books Peter used to collect, primary colours of blue and leaking red, tarnished gold like the coins he hoarded in his pockets. His fingers scrabble against hers weakly. _I used to collect things,_ Peter once said. _Not any more? No. Somewhere along the line they all slipped away._ Walter had looked at him, then, desultorily: observation or pity party, either way, he was unwilling to engage. He had spent his life surrounded by children, fearless, _brave_ , unwavering children, trying to learn from their example (the graciousness in which they excepted death, when Walter had raged, fumed, and fought tooth and nail against the inevitable loss), the potential they radiated.

“Walter,” Olive whispers. His eyes are opague, a film across the lens like a merging cataract. “Not like this.”

It’s not how it was written, how it was fated – but life is a series of curveballs – and Walter aims at the unexpected.

He smiles at her, pained.  Olive’s features melt away, her hand squeezes his own in a solitary point of contact. He would like to have had grandchildren.  He would like to have seen his son’s face one final time, he would take back those experiments, return their youth and their quiet dignity.  He would have...


	5. Post 4:15 - Spoilers for episode in question

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lincoln Lee, post 4:15 - idle fluff. Gen, male friendship.

“They are trying to kill me.”

Lincoln doesn’t yelp. He startles in his chair so badly he almost overturns it, a scrape of wood against floor as he jolts in his seat. The penmanship in his report is marked by a jagged slash of blue.

It’s spoken with a curious edge of consternation, as if September couldn’t comprehend how such a turn of events might occur. His shirt is pristine, no bloodstain creeping from beneath his collarbone. One hand is plastered to his hat; his tie, normally impeccable, is flung over his left shoulder, as if September materialised mid-flight or was standing on a New York air vent. He’s missing Marilyn Monroe’s pout and it’s not seduction in his eyes but bewilderment.

Lincoln stands slowly, one hand close to his hip. Astrid and Walter left an hour ago for an ice cream run, there’s no one here but him. “They already have,” he answers carefully.

September blinks once, eyelashes long on his marbled face. His hand flexes on the handle to his suitcase. “I was gravely mistaken.”

He wants to say Olivia’s not here, nor is Peter, as far as Lincoln knows, September’s always been myopic in his interest. _Can I help you_ , seems a little mundane, and really, this is weirding him out. “The others...” September vanishes before he finishes the sentence.

Lincoln stares at the empty space, once occupied, and wonders what stage in the Observer’s life this event just occurred at. He wonders, bitterly, if he had registered as anything other than a blip on the Observer’s radar.  

The report on Anson Carr sits half completed.

Lincoln packs up his gear, grabs his jacket, and leaves the report unfinished. He goes to his café, cheap food that’s surprisingly tasty, and orders chorizo, baby spinach, and a tomato-based risotto. He ordered from their wine menu once and regretted it for the entire night. Lincoln settles for water, his fork pushing the spinach from one side of the plate to the other. Olivia, he knows, won’t show up. She hasn’t been to the café once - not since Lincoln left to visit his godchildren a month ago.

He finishes up, a ring of condensation staining the cheap wood in his booth, and leaves by 11:30 pm.

He doesn’t avoid them for the next few days, politely, Lincoln has decided to afford them space instead. Lincoln’s good at reading body language. He notes the unconscious way _theirs_ has changed, soft curves that slant toward one another when relaxed, thinking they’re unwatched; a united front when on the job. How Peter slows his stride, matches Olivia step for step, their bodies perfectly in sync. For a perpetrator, they resemble nothing so much as a solid wall coming straight for you. He wonders if this is what David Robert Jones saw when they were hunting him through a derelict building; if he could sense the static charge.

Lincoln watches until he can’t any more.

He fixates on the work, on the shape-shifters, on leads that allow him to work by himself or with Astrid. He drops from five hours sleep a night to three, he changes cafes and finally moves from a motel to a rental property. He’s happy for her. Happy as a Hallmark card.

***

“Charlie Francis, myself, a guy named Sam Weiss. When it wasn’t myself, then it was Astrid, Nina Sharp, and some cortexiphan kid called Simon.” Peter takes the seat opposite, forearms folded at the table, eyes sharp. Lincoln stares at him blankly. “Since I’ve been in this world, it’s been you, Walter, Astrid, and Nina altogether.”

“That’s a fascinating list. Are you going to elaborate, or is this a bizarre form of connect the dots?”

“They’re the people Olivia chooses to confide in. The ones she talks to when she needs to blow off steam, or get some emotional support.” Peter meets his eyes firmly. “The people who have her back.”

“You seem to be covering her back pretty well.” Lincoln says it before he realizes he’s said it. There’s one horrified moment when he feels his cheeks flame pink, his muscles freeze, before he raises his chin defiantly. “That didn’t come out correctly.”

Peter grins, lips peeling away to show a hint of teeth. “True enough. And also, I’d appreciate it if you’d start covering Olivia’s back again as well.”

Lincoln feels his jaw grind. He doesn’t need a civilian to tell him how to perform his job, or treat his partner. “I thought she could use some space…the two of you.” Lincoln doesn’t know what his expression reveals; if it reveals anything at all. Peter watches him quietly.

“Olivia has a long list of people who would go to hell and back for her, maybe because they know she would do the same for any of them. I don’t. Have a long list of people to confide in. I have her. And this year, I’ve had you.”

Disconcerted. It’s not what Lincoln was expecting, it startles him enough he makes eye contact.

Peter meets his gaze, face sincere, before it slowly resets. “Did you want to arm-wrestle for her?”

Lincoln chokes on a laugh. Befitting maybe, that it would be _this_ man who sought Lincoln out in his solitude. “I’m disappointed Olivia didn’t hear you say that. I would have won her over before you finished the sentence.”

Peter looks away and stretches out in the booth, back against the wall, left arm on the table, legs sprawled across the seat with his feet dangling off the end. Owning every inch of space he can find. “So where you at, with the shape-shifters?”

It should be more awkward, Lincoln thinks faintly. He wonders about what Peter said, that he’s never had anyone to talk to other than Olivia, the way he’s inserted himself in Lincoln’s personal space, arrogant and casual all at once. “I was visited by an Observer, a couple nights ago. Although I think he was lost,” Lincoln offers instead. He peels his glasses off, folds the arms and pockets them.

Peter raises an eyebrow. “Which one?”

“Yours. Clean shirt, no bloody hole in his chest.”

“Last time I saw him the shirt was still bloody. But he was breathing easy. I think they fixed him up before they locked him away.”

“What?” Lincoln says blankly. “When was that?”

“Three nights ago. You?”

“Same.” There’s silence between them, the background chatter of voices and dishes being washed in a sink bleeding through. “Is he still claiming you’re special?”

Peter shakes his head and closes his eyes, neck craned toward the ceiling, his throat long under the sallow light. “For a broken definition of the word ‘special’, then yeah.”

“You don’t believe him?”

“Me existing or not existing didn’t impact the Observers at all. I’m not special to them _personally,_ or their version of the future. They were perfectly happy if I was wiped off the timeline completely. They were trying to do so, in fact, before Olivia pulled me in. Doesn’t sound special to me.”

“Okay. So you’re not important to the Observers you’re just…significant to September for some reason. Maybe you’re his great-great-great-six times removed grandfather, and he’s trying to keep you alive so he’ll stay alive?”

Peter squints one eye open, his voice raspy as if he hasn’t slept. “If September and I were related…I have it on authority he would have winked out of existence the same time I did.” There’s something dead in Peter’s tone when he says it. “Try again.”

“Maybe he’s their version of a criminal? Mad as a hatter? Locked away for his own good. Maybe he’s just interfering in time and spreading lies everywhere?”

“Cute.”

“It’s a possibility.”

“If it’s a possibility you’re hoping for, then I revoke my friendship.”

“You wouldn’t have anyone else to talk to,” Lincoln says innocently. He sees the slow curve of Peter’s mouth, watches the steady tap of his fingers against the counter.

“I did appreciate it,” he says softly. “You treating me like I was worth knowing. I’m better at making acquaintances than friends.”

Lincoln looks around, at his brand new diner, in his brand new street, near his brand new _house_ and wonders how Peter managed to find him. Lincoln's certain the neighbours don't even know his name yet. “I think you’d do the same for me.”


	6. CODA - 2:21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coda to the last episode, 4:21, Peter/Olivia, light fluff

He can’t take his shirt off.

Olivia does it for him, one button at a time. Her mind slides alongside his the same way her fingers do. A shy, tentative greet, an unspoken, ‘Is this okay?’

He doesn’t know. Her mind’s a furnace, like sitting too close to a fireplace as a kid, kinetic energy, the crackles and sparks of spitting wood. Someone’s shooting at you, Elizabeth used to say, and Peter would pretend a mortal injury, shot through the heart as the flames cast sprites, fae shadows against the wall. He would inch closer because the warmth was mesmerizing, hues of red and orange, honeyed amber – bluer and deeper, hotter in the centre - until his clothes would super-heat, the metal buttons on his jean jacket pressing starbursts of pain against his wrists.

Here and now, Olivia peels his shirt off, her touch lighter than the presence in his mind, her hand a soft caress. She hasn’t withdrawn yet, bottom lip caught between her teeth. He hisses, muscles pulling tight, a series of twitches that run from his collarbone, triceps, biceps, to the points of his fingers, that expand from his shoulder and down the side of his flank. Peter’s had broken bones before: cracked ribs, a dislocated shoulder is a first though - there will be a weakness now, a predisposition toward repetitive injury.

“You’re blue,” Olivia murmurs quietly, her eyes tracking Jones’ handiwork.

Jones’ targeted Peter’s right side, shoulder, arm, kidneys, striking the back constantly, where the bones are prominent and there’s less body fat for protection. If his arm’s going to be useless for the next few days, then Peter’s counting his blessings for being left-handed. He grimaces, lets his head roll back.

“I’m told it brings out the colour of my eyes.”

Olivia pushes the shirt off his shoulders completely. The tail-end catches in his waistband, still tucked into his jeans, empty arms and cuffs brushing the floor. She’d taken over the fight instinctively, fallen into training, hooks, fast jabs, made him use the arm that was _injured _because that’s how Olivia fought. She’d forgotten he was left-handed until the fight was over and Peter was swaying, corpse white, his arm stiff as the crowbar used against him.__

Staring at her from the opposite building. 

Olivia had released the security guards naturally, allowed them access to their own bodies, to the panic that had them backing away, eyes blown white like zombies in the darkness. I’m sorry, she wants to say, but she’s not, and the regret isn’t for what she did (instinctively) but for the moment of resistance she’d felt, when Peter had _fought_ her. Confusion/pain. Anger/Tyler, because Peter’s been used like a puppet before. A half second of fear, before he realised who, and what, it was.

Olivia hasn’t withdrawn from his mind completely, his presence a steady rock; it’s the reminder of fear that has her holding loose, determined to have it out.

Peter tilts his head. Olivia’s hands are resting on his hips, fingers brushing the leather of his belt and the soft flannel of his caught shirt. He covers one of her hands with his own. Every time he tries to guess what Olivia’s thinking, he gets it completely wrong. You’re thinking this job can’t get any weirder. Yes. Actually no, I’m not. Are you worried about Walter? Not exactly. Guessing, Peter’s decided, is more of a time-waster than outright asking, and while he loves Olivia dearly, they always approach things from opposite angles, found each other in the centre regardless. 

“Alright, Pusher, hurry up and say it.”

Like the Ghostbusters reference, Olivia stares at him blankly, as if pop culture’s a foreign language. “What?”

“I want Lincoln back,” Peter says flatly. “He always knows what I’m talking about.” Her mouth twitches. Peter feels warmth ripple down his spine, dappled, dazzling, and draws in a breath, filled with wonder. Is that you? 

“I always privately thought you two geeked out together on stakeouts,” Olivia murmurs. “Star Wars versus Star Trek arguments and who’s the best Avenger.” 

“Tony Stark,” Peter says instantly. “Although Banner’s actually interesting in this movie, which is a first for the Hulk. I hope he gets to see it.” 

“I could bring him back for a weekend, you could make as many sci-fi references as you want.” More hesitantly, she adds. “I don’t think I need the others anymore, if I want to travel between the worlds, I mean.” I’ve never needed the bridge, she doesn’t add.

And that’s the heart of it. Olivia’s growing, her abilities expanding outward. The cortexi-kids manifest with one ability – Sally and pyrokinesis, Nick and reverse empathy, James and the ability to self-heal – they need the group acting in concert to touch other capabilities. Olivia’s the only one who’s managed all of those abilities at one time or another independently: from repairing her own brain damage after flying through an SUV window to acute hearing, from leaping between worlds to telekinesis, she’s never been limited to one skill-set, adapting and using each new manifestation as the need arises. Pusher, Peter had called her. Tyler, he means. And he should be scared. He should be terrified.

“Are you wigging out?” he asks archly. “About the roof-top thing?”

“I’m not sorry,” Olivia says evenly. “And I won’t promise to not do it again. Not if it's the difference between keeping you alive or watching you die.”

“Well, I’m glad we’ve agreed on that. I’m a proactive supporter of me being alive.” He’s starting to look amused. “Okay, I see where this headed, so let me cut to the chase. Are you planning on ditching all of your core morality and using me as a slave?”

She stares at him incredulously. “No.”

“Perfect sex, one hundred per cent accurate, every single time; orgasm in record speed, no fumbling or delayed gratification?”

Olivia wavers, considering it mock-earnestly. “Only if I’m feeling impatient.” Peter laughs, low in his throat, head dropping forward, brushing the side of her face with his own. Olivia doesn’t know where to touch him, he’s nothing but a walking bruise on the right side of his body, and what she did, what she’s capable of, is straight out of the comic books that Peter and Lincoln both revered.

She slipped into Peter’s mind, his body. It’s the worst breach of privacy she could imagine, and she’s still there now, humbled, because it isn’t revulsion or panic or fear facing her, it’s a bedrock of certainty, a core belief Olivia wouldn’t use these gifts to harm. Peter pushes the knowledge toward her, sharing it guilelessly.

She withdraws slowly, allows them to seperate entirely. “How can you be so sure?”

“I know you. Better than anyone.”

His mouth is soft to her kiss. Olivia pulls the tail-end of his shirt from the waistband of his jeans, lets it drop to the floor, her hands find his chest, scraping across a nipple before curling around an injured shoulder. Peter jolts into her, groin to groin. She tangles her other hand in the short hairs at the back of his head, keeps him close, and thinks about healing, sharing a gift like James Heath, to repair the damage inflicted. She thinks about sex, and she’s not interested in a blow up doll or a puppet between the sheets, she has a vibrator for instant gratification. Olivia’s interested in the messy build-up, in those moments where pleasure plateaus, starts to drift away, only to be rekindled. Heal, she thinks, and shares it, lets it expand outward, the same way Peter shared his belief in her.


	7. Undercover missions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter and Lincoln negotiate, Astrid watches on. Season four AU

“Why?”

“You’re smaller and younger,” Peter shoots back.  “Congratulations, you fit the cliché for a power dynamic.”

“The fact you said so aloud illustrates how much I ought to be in charge, because clearly you’re talking out of your - ” 

“Look, I’ve been on _both_ ends of an interrogation, I can _con_ my way through this.”

Lincoln blinks incredulously.  “What type of interrogations are we talking about? Because I don’t recall _this_ being the standard practice in the bureau.”

“What are we discussing?” Astrid asks.  Both men freeze comically.  Astrid unwinds a scarf from her neck, unbuttons her jacket to hang it on the hook by the wall and takes the stairs to their level. 

Peter takes one look at Lincoln and declares brightly.  “We’re having a hypothetical argument over who would be ‘alpha’ in a BDSM scene…  And look, Mr. Lee just flushed bright pink.  If he can’t say it he can’t act it ladies and gentlemen and that’s proof positive I ought to lead.”

Astrid feels a little ambushed.

“You’ve been on _both_ ends of role-playing?” Lincoln repeats gamely, not looking at her.  “That’s convenient because, personally, I wouldn’t know how to play it _meek_.”

Politically, Astrid decides it might be time to check her email, or hide her smile.  She sits at her desk with her chin propped on her palms and tries not to look too avid as she listens.

“You can’t _be_ in control unless you know what it’s like to be _out_ of control, something I have a little too much experience with lately; same reasoning: you can’t be responsible for a sub unless you know what it’s like to take the hit.  Consequently, you don’t inspire in a lot of trust in me.”

“Says the man barely out of his jail cell.”

“Astrid, you’re non-biased.  Who would you peg for alpha?”

“Peter,” she says immediately.   And peg’s the word he’s going with?  Really? She deletes fourteen emails and raises an eyebrow at Lincoln who visibly splutters, a distressed noise in the back of his throat at her apparent assessment.  Astrid takes pity on him.  “The meek line was cute, I mean really cute, but have you looked at yourself in the mirror?”  Before either man can protest - or perform a victory crow - Astrid qualifies:  “But if the ‘hypothetical’ involves an operation, then I’d defer to Lincoln.”

“Thank yo – _what?_ ”’

“He’s agent in charge.  You,” she examines Peter clinically.  “You're more like a shady transient in passing.”

“He doesn’t have a clue what he’s doing…he won’t fool anyone.”

“Perhaps,” she hums non-commitably, and doesn’t say anything else.

“Walking into a BDSM club isn’t the way to ask for my help.”

“But you _did_ consider helping?  It’s not the BSDM scene that led to an argument: it was ‘who got to be on ‘top’?” Behind him, Lincoln looks at Peter with renewed interest.  Astrid quirks an eyebrow, teeth showing, then turns her attention to Lincoln.  “Don’t think I haven’t noticed Gene’s stall hasn’t been cleaned out.  Why’d you ask for Peter’s help instead of a _qualified_ agent?”

“Given the scenario, you and Olivia weren’t an ideal choice.”

“We’re not the only agents in the bureau.”   Astrid points out drily.  “One might even say the ranks are plentiful with men.”

Lincoln scratches behind his head, flushes a delightful pink (and Peter was totally right) and asks loudly.  “Does anyone want coffee?”

“Skinny latte.”  When she looks up from her computer screen, Peter’s watching Lincoln as he bolts out the door.  “Adorable, isn't he?”

“Can’t wait to take him home,” Peter agrees. There’s a bite to his tone that says he’s messing with her.  Astrid has the feeling the only people who haven’t heard it are her version of Olivia and Walter, where Peter automatically defaults to politeness and they all shuffle around one another awkwardly.  She likes the acerbic tone better, the flashes of humour that are too rare when he’s in their company. 

“He likes you,” she reveals, softly.

Peter takes a seat at her desk, one foot solid against the ground and the other idly swinging.  “I can tell: he passed a note in study hall.”

“One that said: come to a bdsm club with me?”

Peter grins at her.  “Wouldn’t you know it; I left my leather chaps in the other universe.”

She can't help the laugh, the way he looks at her sideways.  “Thank god for small mercies.”

 

***

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	8. Unnamed ficlet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written as a last minute pinch hit for the Fringe exchange, 2012, for opusculusedfera - who asked for Astrid and Olivia, anything.

Know your city is the first golden rule and Astrid knows Boston like the back of her hand. She could have twirled blindfolded on Newbury street and still locate every historic landmark, bakery, and grand hotel by memory. Astrid knew which direction true north lay - she could have named each road and side alley regardless of where she was standing in Boston – but on the job, across country, in a different location entirely, know your city becomes a whole different ballgame. Problematic, one might say.

“Going west down Ashbury Street!” Olivia hollers over the radio. 

West, Astrid thinks incredulously, and tries to re-visualize the map in her head.  They split up five minutes ago, tearing down side-alleys and taking shortcuts across city parks.  Astrid’s been turned around and turned around again, west is anybody’s guess.  Astrid’s not a sprinter, she doesn’t have Olivia’s long legs or her lung capacity for that matter, but she does have a love for modern technology and an app that acts as a compass. She skids to a stop between a flower vendor and a coffee shop. Astrid takes three precious seconds to check her bearings then cuts down an alleyway rank with the smell of urine and an overflow of rubbish.  Her jacket’s unbuttoned, the weight of her service weapon slaps against her ribcage. West, she thinks huffily, and wonders if Walter ‘added’ orienteering skills to his crèche of super children. She’s almost at the mouth of the alley when their perp appears in the periphery of her vision, barreling down Ashbury Street, looking over his shoulder for Olivia. Astrid steps out of the alley at the last possible second and drops, doubled over on the busy sidewalk. The collision knocks the air from her lungs. It sends Astrid sprawling - and if she hadn’t already made herself as small as possible - it would have ended with concussion. Their perpetrator flies right over the top of her, there’s no grace, Astrid can hear the impact of nose against pavement, the distinct rattle of broken teeth as he face plants. Winded, Astrid unfolds. On the pavement, she skids around on her butt and pulls her weapon simultaneously, legs akimbo, both hands held steady.

He doesn’t move.

Olivia approaches at a dead run. She circles wide and approaches the perpetrator from the opposite angle, never impeding Astrid’s line of sight. “Okay?” she asks tersely.

Astrid nods. She doesn’t relax until the handcuffs are on. “Better than him.”

 

***

 

Olivia shouts her to TGIF, a merely modest meal offset by a truly stunning Rymill cab-sav. There are abrasions on Astrid’s elbow that she hadn’t noticed until now, tenderness in her collarbone. “I used to play soccer when I was young,” she muses, apropos of nothing. “I don’t remember getting this many scrapes and bruises.”

“It was running for us,” Olivia offers hesitantly, eyes lowered. “Before Nina we didn’t have much money growing up.   Rachel and I used to race each other around the block and my mom would sit on the porch step and time us, a one-woman Mexican wave.”

Astrid can’t help the smile. She rolls the wine in her glass and studies the other agent, how the light catches on Olivia’s hair, lends shadows to her features. Her eyes are half-lowered, long fingers curled loosely around the stem of her glass. “Track and field doesn’t surprise me.”

“Tell me something that _would_ surprise me,” Olivia challenges. Her mouth is soft, a slow curve like the promise of a smile.

Astrid considers the question then reveals. “I wanted to be a cat burglar when I was young, actually, the romantic in me _still_ aspires to be a cat burglar, there’s something alluring about the profession.”

The laugh is low, amused. “ _To Catch a Thief_?”

“No.  _Lassiter._ Some horrible b-grade movie with Tom Selleck.” Astrid shrugs, as if to imply ‘youth’. “It left an impression on me. I tried to watch it again a little while ago but…let’s just say some things are best left in the past.”

“You would make a nimble thief.”

Mental aerobics with Walter, running ops with Olivia, Astrid has a certain flexibility; it’s a requirement for her position. “I try.”  She has a certain degree of courage, too.  It’s a slow slide forward, of feet meeting each other under the table; it’s the usurpation of personal space, carefully negotiated, never moving too aggressively. She wants to ask Olivia a thousand different questions yet it seems they never have enough time to learn the basics, nothing beyond a professional setting. She wants to know if Olivia was raised in the country, if her natural reticence - the zones she guards so zealously - is habitat, a reflection of being raised with miles and miles all around her or something else. It’s distance contracting, closing to scant inches until she can smell Olivia’s scent, a mix of clean soap and the softer, basic fragrance of a woman. Astrid is Walter Bishop’s assistant, she’s a computer programmer with a secondary degree in linguistics and when she was a little girl, she wanted to be a thief, a cat thief because no ordinary thief would do. She kisses Olivia in the corner of a pub, thumb tracking across Olivia’s jaw-line, mouth curved with secret pleasure as the other woman opens for her. And she thinks - as they break apart gently, as Olivia licks across her bottom lip - that Olivia just divulged something surprising too.


End file.
